


Voyeur

by 221b_hound



Series: Triptych [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Multi, Polyamory, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-23 07:42:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6109821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knew certain truths about their polyamorous dynamic. He knew that Mary loved to watch. He knew that Sherlock loved to be watched. And John? He loved to be both the object and conduit of these desires. He found intense sexual pleasure in it, but more than that…oh my god, how he loved to watch <em>them.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John

**Author's Note:**

> This is the story of Mary's idea, mentioned at the end of In The Blood, In the Heart.

John's hand was resting on the curve of Sherlock’s backside as they reached the upstairs bedroom. He gave the lushness under his palm a gentle squeeze as he ushered Sherlock in ahead.

Sherlock paused ever-so-briefly to push back into the touch before continuing in, to greet Mary, who sat, relaxed, in the large armchair opposite the bed.

John's expression - always a panoply of response - was filled with anticipation-adoration-wonder-pride at the sight of Sherlock leaning down to kiss Mary. Back in the day he might have said that Sherlock was an obvious sensualist and would probably enjoy sex if he could stop denying his humanity and quit analysing stuff for half a minute. He never would have surmised that Sherlock would be such an _affectionate_ lover. The sex was great, obviously, but the deeper pleasure had turned out to be how Sherlock responded to being _loved_ , with soft words and tender touches and tangible emotion, and how loving he was in return.

John watched Mary and Sherlock kissing, murmuring greetings, caressing each other's hair and cheeks, kissing again, and thought how lucky he was to have these two best friends whom he could cherish and ravish and have adventures with and raise a family with and grow old with.

Mary held her hand out towards him. John took her hand, and kissed her offered mouth. Sherlock placed his hand on the back of John’s neck, then swept his palm down, until he was the one now squeezing a handful of luscious arse.

Mary placed a hand on John’s cheek, and the other between his legs, where she softly rubbed at him through his jeans. He moaned appreciatively and stood wider, and she rubbed him again.

‘You sure?’ he asked breathlessly. Mary was still recovering from the caesarean, but her current physical limitations didn’t demand that she completely gave up sensuality until those were healed.

She arched an eyebrow at him in ‘what do you think?’, and Sherlock kissed the back of his neck.

‘I like watching you two,’ said Mary, just to be clear. ‘I like to give my boys a run.’ She laughed then, low and sultry and inspiring. ‘I like to have pretty things to look at, and John, my love, watching our darling Sherlock suck you, or you with your tongue in his arse, or either of you fucking the other – those are all very pretty things.’

Sherlock hummed cheerfully with his lips pressed to John’s jaw, and John grinned. Their triptych was very versatile, oh yes. Mary liked to joke about their preferred plural, and say that spice were the variety of life as much as the other way around.

But John knew certain truths about them all. He knew that Mary loved to watch. He knew that Sherlock loved to be watched.

And John? He loved to be both the object and conduit of these desires. He found intense sexual pleasure in it, but more than that…oh my god, how he loved to watch _them_.

‘Did John tell you?’ Mary asked Sherlock.

Sherlock kissed Mary’s lips. ‘No. An idea, he said. Something different, I surmise. New.’

‘I’m going to tell you what to do,’ she said, ‘And you’re to do only that.’

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

‘John,’ said Mary, her gaze fixed on Sherlock’s, ‘Fondle Sherlock’s cock through his trousers.’

John, guided by her earlier excellent example, cupped his palm over the front of Sherlock’s trousers and pressed; rubbed gently against Sherlock’s swelling prick.

‘Bite Sherlock’s ear, John.’

John tilted his head to suck Sherlock’s earlobe between his teeth and nibble it.

Sherlock and Mary had not stopped looking at each other. Mary’s face was flushed pink. So was Sherlock’s.

‘Sherlock,’ said Mary, her tone firm but not harsh, ‘Kiss him. Kiss John like you wanted to when you first met.’

Sherlock swallowed, and turned to John, and held John’s face in his hands and kissed him – not some sweet, chaste kiss of blushing first love. He covered John’s mouth with his, soft and relentless, and licked against John’s mouth.

‘Surrender, John,’ Mary murmured, but John was already surrendering, parting his lips to taste Sherlock’s tongue on his, kissing back. Their lips and mouths slid together, hot, wet, passionate. Eager. Hungry. Sherlock’s thumbs caressed John’s cheeks, his fingertips moved behind John’s ears, cradling him. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and went pliant in Sherlock’s arms and he kissed and was kissed, and it felt not that Sherlock was taking him, but that Sherlock was giving and giving. John held his husband and gave and gave back.

_This is how he always loved me._

John held Sherlock more tightly. He moaned, and pushed into the kiss, and moaned again, and had the pleasure-spiking joy of hearing Sherlock’s whimpering moan in reply. John heard Mary’s ‘oh’ and then she said ‘that’s beautiful’.

Sherlock withdrew from the kiss in slow stages, in lingering presses of his lips to John’s, until he stood, still cradling John’s face, panting slightly. He reached one hand to Mary, to cup her face too. ‘You remember our first kiss?’

‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘Kiss me like that.’

Sherlock held John’s hand in his as he leaned over to kiss their wife. There was less desperate passion in it, but there was reverent intensity, as though he couldn’t believe his profound good luck to be allowed.

John watched them. He watched Mary close her eyes and her eyelids shiver, and saw the glistening of moisture caught in her lashes. He watched Sherlock’s expression as it must have been that first time – which he didn’t witness – full of relief and hope that this was his. Permitted and welcomed. That it would all work out.

Mary patted Sherlock’s cheek and smiled, her eyes bright. ‘You’re going to like this,’ she breathed.

‘Yes,’ Sherlock agreed.

‘John,’ said Mary, still looking at Sherlock, ‘Undress our beautiful husband.’


	2. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John undresses Sherlock. Sherlock reflects on how being observed by John and Mary makes him feel real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story might be three or four chapters. Five at a pinch. :)
> 
> I've been busy because of work and [ this new book!](https://narrellemharris.wordpress.com/my-books/the-adventure-of-the-colonial-boy/)

John's mouth did that thing Sherlock loved, that half grin, tilted up one side, knowing and warm and a little smug, as though they shared a wonderful secret. Sherlock adored it when John looked at him like that. Like John knew Sherlock inside out and prized every strangeness in him.

Which, of course, was true. Sherlock was still not quite used to that.

John slid Sherlock’s top button out and stroked his forefinger down Sherlock’s throat. Then he undid the next button, and traced a line further down Sherlock’s warm skin. John’s tilted smile widened. His blue eyes glowed, and he leaned in to kiss the exposed skin with feathery little kisses, while his clever, efficient hands unfastened the remainder of the buttons.

‘I’m not sure that this is to the letter of the instruction,’ said Sherlock. He was flushed pink across his cheeks, throat, chest and, as buttons parted from their moorings, his flat belly. Sherlock’s gaze flicked to Mary’s.

She was devouring the sight of them with her own tilted smile and wide open eyes. Sherlock’s breath caught at how she looked at them. How she loved seeing them together. How she loved instructing John to touch him.

‘You’re doing it perfectly, John,’ said Mary, ‘Take his shirt off. And then his trousers.’

John laughed, his breath huffing against Sherlock’s skin, and he pushed Sherlock’s shirt back. He licked Sherlock’s right nipple until it peaked, then the left, and Sherlock was making needy little noises.

‘Tell him,’ murmured Mary, ‘All the things you don’t say. Tell him, John.’

John stripped the shirt from Sherlock’s shoulders, down his arms, and briefly held Sherlock’s wrists, still trapped in cuffs, behind his back. John leaned up. He looked into Sherlock’s face. Sherlock licked his lips.

The both still found this kind of thing difficult. Mary was teaching them how to be better.

‘I love you,’ said John, and Sherlock could tell that for a moment John wanted to look away. That saying this made him feel awkward. But John did not look away. John surrendered his vulnerability and gave his soul up to Sherlock, and once he began he couldn't stop. ‘You’re extraordinary, and I love you. It took me so long to admit it even to myself, but it was true for a long time. Since that first insane chase after Angelo’s and “Welcome to London”. Sooner than then. Maybe since you winked at me at St Bart’s that first time. You’re extraordinary and I love you. I love you so much. I'm so glad you came back to us. I was dying without you until Mary came. I still ca'n' believe how lucky we are, the three of us, that we get to have this. Each other. I love her, and I love you. I love you.’

Sherlock watched the rise and fall of John's Adam’s apple as he swallowed down his emotion. Sherlock was aware, in his peripheral vision, of Mary watching them both. He was pinned between John’s gaze and hers.

John had recently watched some irrelevant program with that pretty scientist, Brian something. Sherlock had been simultaneously fascinated and repulsed by a quantum physics notion that reality did not exist until it had been observed, by apparatus at least, if not an actual human. A revolting idea indeed for someone whose whole life was founded upon the examination of trifles – tiny but concrete.

And yet, that was how he felt. That he had been a theoretical phenomenon at best, a sound machine that rattled off observations but was not _real_ , because he’d never really been _seen_.

He was seen now, though. John’s eyes and Mary’s eyes saw him. Their minds and hearts saw him; saw through the skin of him, and the brain of him, into the heart of him. The soul. He had never felt more real.

Sherlock could not describe how he loved it, here in their bed, when they _saw_ him. When they each witnessed him surrendering the isolation in which he once wrapped himself, in the belief that if he made it a choice rather than the thing that was thrust upon him, that he could pretend he liked it.

He let his heart out right in front of them, and they didn't mock him for it, but treated him with love and adoration and care. He wanted to demonstrate to them the things he knew they saw hidden inside him. Nobody else had ever believed he had the capacity. Nobody else had ever made him want to give in to those terrifying vulnerabilities. Nobody else had ever made him feel safe when he did.

And more - Sherlock couldn’t describe what it meant to him when they were out in the world, and _others_ could see how Mary and John could see right into him.

Oh, how he loved it when the world could see that he _could_ be loved without having to edit himself. That the things that made him strange were exactly the things that made him loved.

He loved it that being seen to be loved made him feel suddenly more real. That being properly seen by his husband and wife made him feel worth _being seen_. He once would have dismissed any need to be validated by the world at large, but now, out there, people could see that John and Mary _saw_ him, and _loved_ him, and he did – he felt validated. Vindicated. **_Real_**.

Sherlock pressed his forehead to John’s. He nudged his nose against John’s. He sighed. ‘You love me.’

‘Yes,’ said John, another puff of laughter, ‘Yes, I love you.’

‘I love you,’ said Sherlock. ‘I love you and I love Mary. I didn’t know I could love at all, and now I have so many of you. You, Mary, Ada and Mae...’

Mary made a funny sound. Almost like a sob. When John and Sherlock looked at her, though, she was grinning. Her eyelashes were damp but she was grinning. ‘God, you two. You two. I love you both so much.’

‘Love you, babe,’ said John.

‘Get his trousers off,’ said Mary with a laugh, ‘I really need for the both of you to be naked.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the pretty scientist is of course Brian Cox.


	3. Mary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary liked to watch her husbands making love to each other. They had shared their light with her and let her become part of it with them. John had helped the monster she was become the Mary she wanted to be, and then Sherlock saw the human Mary and made her real. Of course she loved them.

John finished stripping Sherlock of his shirt then ran the flat palms of his strong hands over Sherlock’s back, his chest, his belly, until his fingers found the fastening of Sherlock’s trousers. In contrast to the leisurely approach to removing the shirt, John quickly unhooked the trousers, opening the zip only enough to allow the waistband to be tugged down, along with Sherlock’s pants, over his arse, hips, thighs, calves. He knelt to help Sherlock, already in bare feet, to step out of them.

‘Oh, don’t hurry this part, John,’ breathed Mary, the sardonic tilt of her lips hardly masking how much she was enjoying this, ‘Kiss everything while you’re down there. You’re so kissable, Sherlock. All over.’

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at her, but the sarcasm was all pretense. He gasped as John pressed open mouthed kisses to his hips, his thighs, the length of his cock.

‘Oh, sweetheart, kiss his bollocks, you know he likes that.’

John obligingly nudged his nose into the heat between Sherlock’s legs and kissed Sherlock’s sac, flicking his tongue out to make Sherlock’s thighs quiver with holding still.

Mary licked her lips as she watched John nuzzling Sherlock’s body. She bit her lips watching John’s heated expression, full of affectionate humour, morphing into a kind of laughing desire. John was a man who loved to make love. John loved to touch and fondle them, to make them gasp and giggle and moan as they made love. He loved to bring Sherlock out of his I’m-so-logical shell, and make him quiver and cry out, to make him feel desired, to make his mere transport go into transports of rapture. John was rather a genius of sex, really.

Mary loved so much to see him making love to Sherlock. It made her think of how John made love to her, too, especially in those early days.

When she’d first met John, back when John was dying every day because Sherlock was gone, she’d thought the quiet doctor was easy to fool. He didn’t seem to know she wasn’t what she appeared to be; that she was a monster trying to learn how to be human again.

And then, they first time they slept together, she understood. John didn’t look to people’s pasts. He looked to who they were, to what they had become. She knew as little about Past John as he did about Past Mary, and neither of those vanished people were important then. Mary genuinely wanted to be redeemed, and John wanted to find a way to live again.

With his body and heart, with his deliberate lack of questioning into Mary-before-John, he accepted her as she was now. He saw that she was a good nurse, who wanted to do good. He liked her sass and dark humour, and they found laughter in the same things. He loved her without prying into the darkness. He saw the part of her that wanted to be human and loved that part. She saw the part of him that had shriveled into the lonely dark, and she wanted to give him light again. He deserved that.

 _Of course_ Mary Morstan fell in love with John Watson. Together, they had ceased to be ghosts. Together, they’d made each other real again. Human again. They had lived in different darknesses, but they held hands and sought the light together.

‘Stop, John.’

John, who had been kissing the crown of Sherlock’s cock with open mouth and flicking tongue, stopped. Sherlock whined and buried his hands in John’s hair. He didn’t move, though. He waited for instructions.

‘Clothes off, John. Now. Sherlock, help him. You’ve got fifteen seconds.’

John half-laughed a protest as Sherlock undid three of his shirt buttons, tore off the rest, then pushed John back onto the bed so he could take off John’s shoes, socks, jeans and pants, still with three seconds to spare. Mary, delighted, laughed low and wicked, and John wriggled on the bed. His hard, flushed cock bobbed and Sherlock licked his lips. Sherlock looked to Mary, and she threw him a bottle of lube.

‘I want to watch you get him ready. Don’t hurry.’

John groaned wantonly before Sherlock even put a hand on him, and arranged himself more comfortably on the bed. Sherlock lifted John’s legs, settling John’s ankles on his shoulders. He squirted lube all over the fingers of his right hand and rubbed them against John’s hole.

Mary shifted gingerly and Sherlock angled himself sideways so that his wife could see John’s bared, spread arsecheeks. He helped John to move and crook his leg, further exposing his puckered hole to Mary’s eyes, to his own. Mary and Sherlock both watched as Sherlock rubbed a finger round and round the pucker, massaging in the lube, and carefully slipping a finger into the ring of muscle.

John panted, moaned, arched, spread his legs and whimpered.

Mary’s gaze flickered away from the gloriously filthy sight of Sherlock fingering their husband, to Sherlock’s look of devoted concentration. Sherlock did this for John with extreme care, and extreme cleverness. He obviously loved to bring John pleasure this way, to find the little nub of his prostate and make John writhe with breathless need.

When Sherlock had returned, resurrected, she hadn’t expected to like him. She hadn’t expected to be anything but jealous and possessive, but by the end of that long and distressing night, she already adored him. She could see that John did too. Even though furious and hurt beyond his capacity to express it without punching Sherlock, Mary immediately saw the thing that neither John nor Sherlock saw.

Sherlock had brought the light back. The little flame Mary had nurtured and coaxed and cared for had bloomed hot and bright again almost immediately. And weirdly, though she ought to have resented it, Mary looked at Sherlock and understood the power he had over John, and she could only think, _oh, oh, you’ll save him. You’ll bring his light back. He deserves that. John deserves to have his light._

She tried to help John to see it. In the days that followed that awful scene at the restaurant, she looked at the burning bright brilliance of Sherlock, and admired it. Loved it because of how John loved it, and on her own account to. And then Sherlock turned that brilliance on her, too.

Mary knew he could see the monster in her. Yet somehow, he also the human she was struggling to become again. And Sherlock let her keep loving John, and he let John keep loving her.

Naturally, she fell in love with Sherlock too. _Naturally._ He saw the Mary that John had made, and made her real.

‘Two fingers,’ Mary murmured, and Sherlock carefully slid a second finger into John’s body, while John writhed and panted. He went to wrap his hand around his own cock, and Mary said, ‘No,’ so he stopped.

‘Rub your cock on his hole, Sherlock. Don’t fuck him yet.’

Nearly whimpering himself, Sherlock took his thick cock in his grasp and rubbed the crown of it all over John’s entrance. John tried to thrust onto it, to get Sherlock’s prick inside him. His leg drooped down, tired from keeping himself open and on display. Sherlock positioned the arch of John’s foot again his shoulder, so Mary could still see.

‘Beautiful,’ whispered Mary, ‘You two are so beautiful. Rub the tip of his cock with your other hand. No, keep rubbing your cock down there. God. That’s it. The two of you.’

The two of them. Sherlock pleasuring the tip of John’s cock with his thumb, pleasuring his own against the hot, puckered skin of John’s arse. Oh, they were beautiful. What a pair. What perfect men. How perfect for each other, and how rarely blessed was she, that they had loved her too. That they had shared their light with her and let her become part of it with them.

Mary had spent most of her life with a different name, a Medusa, a Circe, a silent killer. She’d begun by doing terrible things for good reasons, and ended by doing terrible things for worse reasons, until she had lost herself.

But once, just once, she caught a glimpse of the monster in the mirror, and then she tried to leave it all behind, to change, to redeem herself, before that Medusa reflection could turn her to stone. John helped her find a Mary she could be. Sherlock saw that Mary and cemented the reality of her.

Then Mary had made the choice not only to love them but to _trust_ them. To protect them from the horror of her past by revealing it, so that it couldn't take them like a silent killer in the night. She confessed to them her darkness, the Medusa she’d truly been, and the power Magnussen had over her. They could have abandoned her, to become the monster again, and instead… instead they freed her.

Now, John and Sherlock and Ada and Mae were her light and all her reasons for anything she did. Her husbands and her daughters kept her human, kept her right.

‘Kiss him, Sherlock. Kiss our lovely John.’

Sherlock leaned up John’s body and kissed him, passionately. John clutched at Sherlock’s hair and offered up his mouth for Sherlock to kiss, to lick, to suck at his tongue and lips, to bite his lips and chin.

‘Now,’ Mary said breathlessly, ‘Now, Sherlock, oh please, now, fuck him. Fuck our lovely, lovely John and show him how much we love him.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's [ this thing which I'm thrilled about.](https://narrellemharris.wordpress.com/my-books/the-adventure-of-the-colonial-boy/)


	4. John (reprise)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock obeys Mary's command to 'fuck our lovely, lovely John', and John is speechless with how good it feels; with how he loves it when they talk dirty; with the joy of being _known_ and never being lonely again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

John groaned lavishly at Mary’s command. _Fuck our lovely, lovely John._ He arched up against Sherlock’s body and hitched his knees higher and clung to Sherlock’s shoulders as he sucked on the skin of Sherlock’s upper arm. He could feel Sherlock’s hard, heavy cock pressed hotly into his cleft, and feel his own pushing against Sherlock’s belly.

He could feel Mary’s gaze on them. John opened his eyes to see her, to see how she smiled at him wickedly and lovingly and wantonly and then dragged her gaze down his and Sherlock’s bodies. He could see when she focused on Sherlock’s arse, tucking and curling and pushing between John’s thighs. She moved further away, and though he couldn’t see her face now, he knew she was looking at Sherlock’s prick rubbing against his hole.

John groaned again and shoved his hips up, trying to get Sherlock into him.

Sherlock curled his hips, trying to oblige without using his hands. Then Sherlock paused so that he could kiss John hard, then pull back. Dazed with desire, John blinked at him, and found an anchor in Sherlock’s shining blue-grey eyes.

‘Oh, John.’ Sherlock’s arms were trembling. His legs. His whole body. ‘John. I’m going to fuck you.’

‘Hhnnnhhh…’

‘Mary’s hands are on me…’

John could feel her hand between their legs, guiding Sherlock’s cock.

‘I’m going to get my cock up you and fuck you, John.’

‘Hhhhn…. Fuck fuck fuck yes yes yes fuck me, fuck me… hhhnnnnnn.’

John loved it when they talked dirty to him, his Mary, his Sherlock. Sherlock, especially. He loved it when Sherlock looked him right in the eye and with his deep voice made filthy promises.

‘Feel me, John? I’m in you. I’m fucking you. Oh. Oh. Oh.’

John and Sherlock were both aware of Mary, who had moved to sit on the edge of the bed. Sherlock raised himself up a fraction, displaying more of himself for Mary to see. John lifted his knees to brace the arches of his feet up on Sherlock’s shoulders, opening himself wide.

‘That’s it,’ Mary encouraged them. She stroked her hand down Sherlock’s chest and belly, over John’s wet cock, over his stomach to his nipples. She pinched one, then the other, soft-hard-soft.

‘You feel him in you, John? Our gorgeous husband’s gorgeous cock right inside you, fucking you. Let me hear you.’

John was too breathless to groan now, so his voice made a high hitching noise. His eyes were closed, but then he opened them.

Watching Mary watch Sherlock. Watching Sherlock revelling in being seen. Watching Mary watch the point where Sherlock was buried inside John, and moving, and John’s cock thick and upthrust, bobbing with the steady motion of how Sherlock fucked him, smooth, rough, slow, fast, hard, harder…

Then she turned her head to smile at him. Knowing and lascivious and filled with delight. Because she knew him. She knew how he loved this. Being seen. Being fucked hard by Sherlock. Spreading himself wide for them to see him and play with his body and his desire…

A part of his mind, detached momentarily from the incredible physical pleasure (the feel of Sherlock’s crotch and upper thighs against his bum, of his own feet against Sherlock’s shoulders, of Sherlock’s cock up his arse and Mary’s teasing fingers on his nipples) was keenly aware of how this felt, to be seen, to be known. To be so thoroughly _known_. Oh, the things his husband and his wife saw in him, and knew about him, and accepted about him.

Before Sherlock, before Mary, John Watson was the man who tried so hard to fit but never did. He was the man who wanted to fix the world, in the hope it would someday show him how to be whole, and never could. He had been dying of loneliness all his life, and here he was now, full up, overflowing, not only whole but _blooming,_ becoming _more._

John saw Mary and Sherlock seeing him, properly _seeing him_ , knowing things that he didn’t even know about himself. All of the good things and the wrong things and the parts that were broken and the parts that were _more_.

And they encouraged his mind, his heart, and his body too, all of which had been used and broken carelessly by times and places and people before Sherlock-and-Mary, so that he’d built walls to protect himself from becoming fragments. But he trusted them. He could be vulnerable for them. He could surrender and not lose himself, and he could command and not be outside and apart. He could be both and all and neither, and not be pulled to pieces, because they knew how he fit together, and taught it back to him.

They knew him in all his contradictions and wanted him all, unedited, every part that never fit anywhere else but here. John-Mary-Sherlock.

Alone, they were odd. All odd pieces that didn’t fit anywhere, but together, they were perfect. Perfect, and made more perfect by their little girls, their daughters. Who knew that it could work like this? Who knew life could be so good? So right, at last? So…

Mary was stretched beside John on the bed, brushing her nose against his temple and gently teasing his hard little nipples.

‘Look at your cock, sweetie. Look how hard you are. Oh, god, John, look at Sherlock fucking you. Look at his face.’

John opened his eyes and he looked. At how his cock thrust up into the air between his body and Sherlock’s, at Sherlock’s cock, at the blond hair of his own crotch and the dark hair of Sherlock’s, moving, at Sherlock watching him avidly, so focused.

John meant to say _Fuck me_. He meant to say _Harder_. He meant to say _Don’t stop, keep going, come in me, come in me, Sherlock, fucking come in me._

‘You’re so beautiful,’ he said instead, voice filled with wonder, jerking breathlessly with every thrust of Sherlock’s thick, hot cock into his stretched hole, ‘You, you, you, you, you…’

Mary kissed the corner of John’s eye, licked moisture from it with the very tip of her tongue, and John turned his gaze to her. ‘Mine. You’re mine. You’re both…’ He looked again at Sherlock, ‘Mine. You’re mine.’ He clutched at Mary’s hand, and with his other hand at Sherlock’s forearm. ‘Mine. And yours. Always. Always. Always. Yours. Please. Please.’

‘Always,’ rumbled Sherlock.

‘Yes, sweetheart, always ours. You’ll always be ours. We’ll always be yours. Yes.’

Sherlock closed a hand over John’s cock and stroked him, and kept on stroking him, as his hips jerked and he fucked his lovely, lovely John.

‘Yes, Sherlock, make him come, oh yes, that’s beautiful, show him, show our lovely John, yes, god, Sherlock, fuck him. That’s it.’ She shifted on the bed a little, to reach behind to squeeze Sherlock’s bum in the palm of her hand. To dip her finger into the cleft of his moving arse so that the fingertip rubbed over his hole. ‘Come in him, baby.’

Sherlock cried out, pumping hard and fast into John’s body, and came. He kept moving, kept fucking John, stroking John’s cock, until John, keening, crying out, groaning, arched and came all over Sherlock’s hand, over their crotches, over their bellies.

They subsided, quaking and gorgeously spent, minds buzz-numbed from pleasure, limbs like happy noodles, bodies sated, hearts full.

John shuddered as Sherlock pulled out of him, and gave a little sigh as Sherlock then lowered John’s legs to the bed. Sherlock sprawled along John’s body to kiss him. Kiss him again. Nuzzle his throat and his hair. He was smearing come between their bodies, and he didn’t care. Nor did John for that matter. Sherlock was very much a post-coital cuddler. It’s how he usually ended up in the middle.

John grin-hummed, and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, too boneless to move just yet, but happy to be nuzzled and kissed. He felt Mary’s hands stroking his arms, and then Sherlock arched slightly, made a happy humming sound of his own, indicating that Mary was running a hand down Sherlock’s spine, to his bum.

John gathered his strength, wrapped his arms around Sherlock and turned them, so that Sherlock was flat on the bed and John was sprawled over him, kissing Sherlock’s chest and shoulders.

On the other side of Sherlock, Mary was propped up on the pillow, smiling smugly at her handiwork. Two sex-wrecked husbands. Sherlock reached for her, and she took his hand and kissed his knuckles and wrist.

Sherlock smiled at her. Blissful. His other hand he curved around John’s back to hold him close, then bent his head to kiss John’s hair while John kissed Sherlock’s collarbone.

Over the baby monitor, Mae made a little whimper, and Ada sighed, but they settled again. Mae had only fed just before Sherlock had put the girls to bed. They would be all right for a while.

‘My beautiful boys. My lovely husbands.’

John reached for them, where Sherlock’s hand held Mary’s, and the three of them clasped their joined fingers over Sherlock’s chest, which rose and fell more and more gently, until it was clear he had dozed off.

John rubbed his cheek against Sherlock’s skin. He met Mary’s gaze with a tender, contented gaze of his own.

Mary’s own doting smile only made him more content.

‘Always,’ she said softly.

 _Never lonely again._ John didn’t think it, exactly, but he felt it.

‘Ssh,’ whispered Mary, ‘I need a nap.’ Propped up on her pillows, her expression wreathed in adoring tranquillity, she closed her eyes.

Then John drifted into sleep, too, snugged close to Sherlock, fingers entwined with his husband’s, his wife’s. Happy. Strong. Safe.

Now that they all were truly seen, none of them would ever be lonely again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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